"Zeus abducted Ganymede, the handsome prince of Troy, in the form of an eagle to be his lover and cupbearer to the gods on Mount Olympus. Ganymede was gifted immortality and his honorable position, replacing Hebe. Their story is often interpreted as homoerotic love, a common aspect in ancient Greek society, and Ganymede was later placed among the stars as the constellation Aquarius."

"Zeus is a fuckman. Turns out his hobby isn't just mating with women, but also with men," Alice scoffed, a hint of amusement in her tone. The girl used 'man' because Zeus was ancient.

"What are you reading?" Joey had just sat in the empty seat next to the girl, holding a cup of warm tea.

Alice showed him the last page of the magazine she was reading. Joey glanced at it, not too interested in what was written there. Still, he listened to what Alice said next.

"I was just reading the story behind my star, Aquarius," she said, turning to look at Joey as he sipped his warm tea.

Joey raised an eyebrow. "Your star? Don't tell me you're going to blame your bad luck on set on constellations next."

Alice chuckled, closing her magazine. "No. But come to think of it, my life is much more boring than Ganymede's. He was picked up by an eagle to Olympus, I'm just picked up by a production car to the filming location."

Joey pretended to think. "If Zeus had his eye on you, maybe he'd disguise himself as a TV station director. Easier to get in."

"And you'd be the eagle?" Alice glanced at him with a sly smile.

"Me? I'd rather be the one who stole the horses from Tros," Joey answered casually, sipping his tea. "The job's easier, don't have to fly carrying people."

Alice held back a laugh, then pointed towards the camera being set up by the crew. "Well then, in the next scene, try bringing that horse thief expression. Boost the ratings."

Joey nodded slowly, his lips curving. "As long as you're ready if the fans start rooting for the thief instead."

A crew member passed in front of them, glanced over, while the two remained engrossed in their conversation, undisturbed by the set's hustle and bustle.

Alice was then called by her assistant. The girl placed the magazine she was reading on the chair, stood up and said briefly, "Save my seat."

Joey just raised his chin, watching her walk away among the cables and spotlights.

He glanced at the magazine, initially just out of curiosity. But a large headline on the cover of New York Magazine caught his attention.

Bedloe's Island Rises Again: Port Project Saved by Mysterious Investor

After a long delay due to an embezzlement scandal involving former mayor Will Scots, construction on the port at Bedloe's Island resumed this week. An injection of funds from private investors, including Domenico Cassano—a prominent figure in Manhattan business circles—has provided a fresh breath of air while also raising questions about transparency and long-unexposed legal records.

Joey leaned over, slightly turning the page so the fold wouldn't hide the photo next to it.

The photo was sharp and declarative—Domenico Cassano, a neat Armani suit wrapping his frame, dark sunglasses reflecting the New York sky, stepping out of a black Jaguar. His hand was slightly raised, as if signaling to someone off-frame. His face wasn't turned towards the camera, but his aura of power felt palpable through the print.

Joey let out a small snort, a faint smile appearing. There was something in his gaze—a mix of personal memory and awareness of the world Domenico played in. A world that… was also partly his.

He closed the magazine slowly, tapping its cover with his finger, as if storing something for later.

Joey sat alone, gazing at the magazine Alice had left behind. Amidst the low hum of spotlights and the sounds of busy crew, the atmosphere suddenly felt like a vacuum. He sipped the warm tea slowly, trying to calm his relentlessly churning thoughts. Sometimes the night became his greatest enemy, the time when ideas and worries mixed into one like an overly strong cup of coffee.

In a world full of drama and stages, Joey felt like an extra trapped behind the curtain—watching the grand play but rarely getting the spotlight. Yet, behind his calm face, there was a soul wandering between dreams and reality, searching for a gap to survive and move forward.

He tapped the magazine cover slowly, as if reminding himself that this world was full of mysteries waiting to be solved—or at least acknowledged.

Joey was still sitting lost in thought, half-consciously holding the magazine, when Charlie appeared near him. His steps were light, but full of concern.

"You look sleep-deprived," Charlie said, leaning against the back of the chair, his eyes scrutinizing Joey's face with attentive care, like a father checking on his child who came home late.

Joey shrugged casually. "Not really. I just have trouble sleeping at night," he answered softly, bending one leg on the chair, still with a half-asleep expression.

Charlie chuckled softly. "Well then, do you need sleeping pills? I have some. Doctor's prescription, safe, non-addictive."

Joey smiled faintly, looking at Charlie with a gaze half-serious, half-teasing. "No need. When I'm utterly exhausted, I can definitely sleep on my own."

Charlie raised his eyebrows, grinning. "Pass out, you mean?"

Joey laughed softly, retorting, "Well, obviously not."

Charlie chuckled lightly, then patted his shoulder. "Alright. Take care of your health, kid."

"Thanks, Charlie."

"We start in one minute. Get ready!" he called out as he walked away. Replaced by an Assistant Director handing over a pistol.

"This is a real gun," Joey said less than a second after holding the object.

The Assistant Director smiled. "You could tell at a glance."

"Heavier than usual." He estimated its weight at 1.145 kg. Joey saw the logo on the grip. Beretta, it said.

"Beretta M9, complete with flashlight attachment, standard US Army holster. Perfect for your fight scene, and don't worry, there's no ammo in it." That's what the Assistant Director said as Joey checked the chamber.

The metal of the Beretta M9 was cold to the touch, feeling heavy and solid in his grip. He slipped it into the inside pocket of the dark duffel coat he'd been wearing since morning blocking rehearsals.

Around him, the crew began final preparations. The 35mm film camera was repositioned carefully, set on a short dolly track that would follow the actor's movement along the alley. Tungsten lights were shifted, creating the characteristic dim shadows of 90s noir action films.

Director Charlie sat in his chair, wearing large wired headphones and holding a script clipboard worn by folds. He glanced at his digital Casio watch, then gave the cue.

"Assistant Camera—roll film."

"Sound Assistant—standby. Tape rolling."

"Assistant Director—cue talent!"

Silence fell. All focus.

Kevin ran into the narrow alley, his leather shoes bouncing on the wet pavement from last night's rain. Behind, two CIA agents pursued him relentlessly. The alley was dark, with dull red brick walls and dim yellow streetlight filtering through closed shop windows.

Footsteps grew faster, their echo bouncing between old buildings.

Kevin jumped over a pile of torn, slick garbage bags, his breath ragged, face tense. In his heart, he knew—the alley's end was likely a dead end. But he was too far in to stop.

The next second, his body stopped abruptly.

His hand shot to the inside pocket of his coat.

The Beretta M9 was drawn.

As the two agents appeared at the alley's mouth, Kevin twisted his body and—bam! bam!

Two gunshots echoed, bouncing hard off the brick walls. The bullets hit the agents' heads before they could draw their weapons.

Their bodies collapsed simultaneously.

Dark red blood spread quickly on the cold snow.

Joey remained in a crouch, thin smoke wafting from the Beretta's muzzle. His hand didn't tremble. His breathing was heavy but controlled. He looked at the two corpses lying in the snow, the blood blooming like red flowers on a white canvas. Then, he quickly glanced towards the other end of the alley, ensuring no further threat. His gaze was like a laser—cold, focused, and distant.

Charlie watched the small monitor intently. "Cut!" he shouted, breaking the silence on set. "Excellent! Kevin's soul came through, Joey. That's what I wanted."

The tense atmosphere suddenly dissolved. The crew moved, checking cameras, assistant art directors hurried with sponges and bottles of fake blood for the next take from a different angle. Joey slowly stood upright, still holding the Beretta, his fingers reflexively releasing the magazine to ensure it was empty—a habit he'd learned from someone he desperately wanted to forget.

Alice walked over, her face still slightly pale from the intensity of the scene she'd just watched from behind the monitor. "Wow," she whispered, her eyes sparkling with a mix of admiration and a bit of awe. "You really... looked like you actually know how to use that thing."

Joey shrugged, trying to look casual. "Just acting." He handed the pistol to the waiting prop assistant, his hands gloved. As the object changed hands, he felt slightly lighter.

"Not just acting," Charlie countered as he approached, pulling a cigarette from a Marlboro box in his jacket pocket. "There's authenticity there. As if you're intimately familiar with that danger." His eyes, usually friendly, now observed Joey sharply. As a director and also a father-like figure to him, Charlie had an instinct for reading people—and Joey was a book whose pages were often locked.

Joey avoided his gaze, bending to pick up a cold bottle of mineral water left on the floor. "I watch a lot of gangster movies, Charlie. Scorsese, De Palma, that's enough for reference."

Charlie lit his cigarette, exhaling smoke into the cold, foggy air. "Hmm," he murmured, not fully convinced. "Yeah, maybe. Or maybe there's a private tutor who's very... persuasive."

The sentence hung in the air like Charlie's cigarette smoke. Joey froze for a moment, the water bottle in his hand stopping halfway to his mouth. He looked at Charlie, trying to read if it was just an offhand comment or something deeper. But the director's face just looked tired and satisfied with the shoot.

Sheira appeared just in time, like a guardian angel in a thick parka jacket and a cup of warm green tea in her hands. "Break time, superstar," she said with a forced cheerfulness, slipping between Joey and Charlie's too-observant gaze. "I ordered chicken soup from your favorite deli. Plus, there's a slight schedule change for tomorrow's interview we need to confirm."

Joey sighed with relief, turning to Sheira. "Thanks, Shei." He accepted the tea, its warmth seeping through his thin gloves.

As Joey walked away with Sheira, leaving the busy set, Charlie remained silent, watching him. His eyes followed Joey's slender back wrapped in the duffel coat, then shifted to the New York Magazine still lying abandoned on the folding chair. Its cover featured the headline about the port project and the blurred photo of Domenico Cassano.

Charlie took a deep drag from his cigarette, his eyes squinting. He remembered a night five years ago, when he found a thin, wild, terrified boy sleeping in the trunk of his car in a grimy Brooklyn alley. The boy was like a wounded animal—trusting no one, jumping at every loud noise, and his blue eyes holding a storm too big for his age.

He also remembered last year, when Joey won his first Emmy. The party at the West Village apartment. Everyone cheered, champagne flowed. But amidst the joy, Charlie saw Joey standing on the balcony, gazing into the city darkness with an empty expression—like a prisoner looking at freedom from behind bars, knowing those bars might never truly disappear.

"Everything alright, Charlie?" the assistant director asked, interrupting his reverie.

Charlie nodded, stubbing out his cigarette under his worn boot. "Yeah. Everything's fine." But in his heart, a long-harbored unease lingered. He knew Joey carried ghosts from the past—ghosts that sometimes looked too real, like in today's shootout scene, or in his blank stare amidst a crowd.

[.]